


India Lima Uniform.

by KesaKo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Action/Adventure, Alternate Season/Series 04, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Codes & Ciphers, Evil Mary, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Infidelity, It's For a Case, M theory, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft is trying, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Secret Letters, Sherlock is so in love it hurts, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Songfic, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, This fic is about Mycroft, Virgin Sherlock, well kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KesaKo/pseuds/KesaKo
Summary: In his relentless crusade to catch Moriarty, Sherlock learns secrets he wasn’t supposed to learn and is wrongly imprisoned by Mycroft. But John is in grave danger, and Sherlock desperately tries to warn him by sending letter after letter to the Watsons’ house. All the same, to the very last word. A code, obviously.Heartbroken, John refuses to read them. A race against time and doubts starts, and longtime suppressed feelings are finally addressed.This is a story of love, adventure, secret relationships and danger in the midst of winter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic includes a playlist of instrumental songs or piano/violin covers that you can listen to as you read to put you in the mood - especially if Sherlock is playing the violin, just saying. You can access the song by downloading the whole playlist [here](https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B9L6_RUvWhOcSGhreUFJbXNsVGc) and by clicking on the violin F-Holes symbols at the start of each scene to know which one you have to play.
> 
> I wrote this story during the hiatus as a post-series 3 (+ TAB) fanfiction, and right after I finished watching our dear Rebekah's brilliant TJLC Explained. So I tried to include our usual codes in this (mirrors, foreshadowing, phone = heart, drink/food code, elephants, numbers, the straight deerstalker, John's bi plaid shirts, water = emotion and what have you). Have fun finding them!
> 
> I also want to thank the lovely [ TheLadyAmalthea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyAmalthea/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn) for beta-ing this story. She is a sweetheart and I would need more than a few lines to tell you how grateful I am to have met that fantastic Johnlocked friend right before entering the Series 4 Hell. Also she writes for the fandom in case you want more Johnlock or Mystrade love!
> 
> If I had to pick one, [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZapeCW_QPY&list=PL0wxk3jLYCTsr_k7uyWuGumnLqdk7cTSg&index=1) would be India Lima Uniform's soundtrack ! (violin feels)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy yourselves.

 

 

 

[ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qn_wlkzW1ds&list=PL0wxk3jLYCTsr_k7uyWuGumnLqdk7cTSg&index=14)

 

The casual dismissal with which he was thrown into the surprisingly accommodating room - _cell_ , it was a _cell_ \- was barely necessary. His brother’s two tall, squarely built henchmen surely wouldn’t be remembered for being the sharpest knives in the drawer, despite each holding a degree, no, two degrees, from an Irish university, probably Dublin, perhaps the Trinity College, but they both possessed a keen sense of observation when it came to potential threats. Sherlock evaluated his _cell_ in a swift, precise glance - _double bed (clean), sofa, coffee table (wood), rug, a television, shelves (but no vase or photo frame, no way to break glass), books, kitchen (knives?), windows (both barred)_ \- and turned around in the next millisecond to make a bolt for the door, again.

Of course, he had expected the two men to be prepared: both had their guns drawn and pointed low, towards his legs. Sherlock evaluated the probability of being shot as fairly low and tried to disarm one of them with a sharp move of his wrist. Said wrist was immediately grabbed and torn behind his back in a dismissive, more than threatening, counter-attack, and Sherlock, having ruled out physical force, used the momentum to turn around once more and forget all about this failed attempt as he considered his other options, while tapping together his hands joined under his chin in a reflexive posture.

Think. Think. _Think._

He needed to get out of here _at once_. John was in danger. He needed to get to John. To warn him.

‘When is my brother coming?’ He asked, irritation spiking in his voice at least as much as in his nervous pace. Far from the prying eyes of the police, Sherlock didn’t care much to keep up his perfected mask of cold-hearted sociopath anymore. Every cell in his body was focused on his escape. _Oh, for Christ’s sake!_ Mycroft was annoyingly _slow_ when it came to something really important, like John.

John. John was in danger. Sherlock blinked forcefully, crashing together his eyelids to block the view of the outside world. But he couldn’t get to his mind palace in this state. His mind raced, detailing every one of the eight escape routes which were unfolding under his shut eyes with each passing second, but he couldn’t access his precious mind palace.

He rushed forward, hastily looked into the fridge and let out a cry of frustration when it proved to be empty. Five routes. He slammed the door with the adequate amount of disgust.

‘Don’t worry, someone will fill it soon with food and drinks.’ Came the unhurried, placid voice behind him. ‘Do you care for _champagne_?’

Sherlock spun around. Mycroft was standing between his two men, nonchalantly resting his weight against his umbrella. He resisted the urge to ask pettily if he was the one who had emptied it in the first place. Matters of the utmost importance were at stake. He didn’t have time for Mycroft’s games. And, unusually enough, his brother wasn’t wearing his sarcastic, condescending excuse for a face. He looked stern, almost dark, and the quick flash of pity in his eyes disappeared before Sherlock could examine it more closely.

‘I want to see John.’ It had been a order, but he hated how they both analyzed it as a plea, his obvious weakness, his dangerous pressure point.

The inappropriate pity slid from Mycroft’s eyes to the corner of his lips. The one second of inaction it took to carefully choose his words made the room feel maddeningly silent.

‘I’m afraid the feeling won’t ever be mutual again, Sherlock. What you’ve done -’

‘Oh, _please_!’ He exploded, ‘Surely even you are not dense enough to think I could have done it! We’ve been over this on the way here. Griffin was already dead when I came into the warehouse. I was staking out _Mary_ and I overheard-’

‘Mary… The woman whose unborn baby you were threatening to murder with a gun pointed to her stomach.’ He clarified with an _annoying_ and disapproving tilt of his head. ‘How could you do that to John Watson?’

Sherlock remained static, but he supposed the light in his eyes visibly flinched as he remembered the look on John’s face when the army doctor had stormed into the place and seen the stand-off between him and Mary. He had blinked his midnight blue gaze, once, twice at them, taking in his wife’s fresh tears and the hands protectively placed over her own belly, taking in the gun, and finally, Sherlock. John had worn the most earnest expression of confusion on his face for an instant, and Sherlock had drunk it in as fast as he could, all of him, his loyalty, his soft face, his bravery, his strong, hesitant posture and furrowed brows as he realized what he had to do.

‘Sherlock?’ He’d asked. A question. A need for guidance.

His name had been agony on John’s lips.

Sherlock had turned back to Mary, realizing dumbly that he was two seconds away from crying, and he had warned with a surprisingly steady voice, ‘Step back, John, or I’ll shoot them both!’

 _Coward_. He had not been able to face the betrayal in John’s eyes in that moment, the way the blood must have drained out of his face as his blogger had uselessly opened and closed his mouth without a word, heart beginning to break, again. Sherlock’s fault, again. _Come on, John. You know I wouldn’t. But you have to believe it. You have to._ He was supposed to be a genius, and yet all he seemed to be able to do was hurt John. _Believe me. See, do not observe._

_Do not observe, I beg of you._

Sherlock’s eyes had been trained on Mary the entire time, wordlessly whispering the promise of a thousand deaths, but her mask never fell off. _Do not observe, John._ Sherlock had purposely avoided John’s face, but John’s _voice_ had been broken enough to tell him about the tears, the disbelief, the _anger_ :

‘Why?’

Two hours later, and the desperate accusation coating the question still flayed Sherlock’s throat raw.

Good. He had what he had asked for.

Sherlock clenched his teeth and threw daggers in Mycroft’s direction. He felt like someone was viciously twisting a rusty knife in his stomach, and he was positively boiling, as far as he could be from his composed public persona. He battled to keep his voice from trembling too much as he answered between gritted teeth.

‘I told you: I had to. I was never going to kill any baby. I had to pretend to in order to save John. But he’s in immediate danger with Mary, you _need_ to let me out of-’

‘I’m sorry, Sherlock, but this is not on the agenda. I am doing my best by giving you a relatively comfortable place to live, but I’m afraid you will have to answer for your crime this time. Griffin was too important, and too public a figure; his death didn’t go unnoticed. You tackled something too big for you this time. I cannot possibly intervene or do anything for you under these circumstances.’

 _‘Nonsense!_ Let me out, I’ll prove my innocence myself.’ When all the answer he received was a disapproving twist of lips, Sherlock fumed and ordered bluntly, ‘ _Fine_. At least, for now, give him a message for me.’

‘I’d rather not. Not now.’

‘Let me write to him.’

‘Sherlock…’ A sigh. ‘I won’t. They are both very shaken. They need rest. They need to be… away from Sherlock Holmes, for a little while.’

_‘A little while’ could kill John._

As if Mycroft suddenly cared for decency or social conventions or bruised _feelings_ , he added with a sigh, ‘Sometimes, a _Holmes_ can be too much.’

And then, ‘I’ll visit you. Goodbye, brother mine.’

Rather than immediate helplessness, Sherlock’s brain resorted to passion. He grabbed the sharpest object he could find nearby and threw it in his direction. The arm of one of his bodyguards stopped it before Mycroft moved so much as a finger, but his brother’s face contorted in pain for the briefest second, and he sighed quietly, ‘I am sorry Sherlock. I truly am. For everything.’

He absent-mindedly adjusted one of the cuffs of his white shirt, and turned around to disappear. It seemed particularly unfitting not to be thrown inside a dark, seedy dungeon. He resented this cell.

_Think._

 

[ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdDCbcAksqg&index=3&list=PL0wxk3jLYCTsr_k7uyWuGumnLqdk7cTSg)

 

_Three long weeks and four days later_

A distant figure came into the living-room, adjusting the buttons of her white short-sleeve silk blouse, and Doctor John Watson, jaw half-resting on his knuckles as he was, didn’t look up from the boring documentary broadcast on the telly - surprising, given it was on human trafficking - before he heard the voice. It was Mary. Who else?

‘John, are you ready? Sorry I took so much time. The baby…’

‘I know, I know.’ He said when he saw her apologetic expression and her larger than ever round belly. He pulled himself off of the couch with a suppressed groan and extended a hand to gently touch her stomach. The gesture came more naturally now, but he still seemed more stunned than she was whenever he touched her like that. But they were… fine. Mostly fine. ‘Don’t apologize. It’s hardly your fault if baby Watson there…’

He tickled her skin and she smiled. John told himself every day was easier than the last.

‘Come on, husband.’ She cut in, teasing and pressing a kiss on the corner of his lips. ‘We don’t want to arrive when the store is closing.’

 _Right_ , thought John as he gestured for his wife to go first, _what a hectic day that would be if we ever ran out of potatoes._

John Watson had married an assassin, and some days he didn’t know if he was more upset by the fracture of the calm, domestic picture he had been trying to create for himself after Sherlock’s _‘death’_ , or by the dazed boredom he still was living in, even knowing his wife’s past.

Outside, the greedy chill of January bit his cheeks and nose, the frost penetrated his sinuses and throat, and slid under his jumper in a delightful wash of his system that made him feel alive in the time it took him to go from their house to their car.

Both of them pretended not to see the familiar letter half-buried under the dirty, melting snow. What was visible of the initial words was now mostly smudged, but one could still decipher ‘ _Captain John Watson’_ in an elegant handwriting, followed by their address.

When he felt particularly sentimental, John imagined the smudged words were crying.

The following painful cramp of his heart was nothing unusual. He ignored it, as he had ignored many other things in his life, and Mary clutched her hand in his with a pitiful smile.

A sac of potatoes in each hand, John passed by the letter once again twenty minutes later on the way back; Mary slowly bent with a hiss to fetch it and put it into the fire.

He watched it burn. It was always sort of satisfying, but John didn’t really know what he liked in it. The paper crumbled and blackened, running away from the licks of the flames as long as possible, trying for an escape, one last chase. Delicate and stubborn, the word ‘ _John_ ’ burnt last.

His thumb distractedly ran over his empty glass of whiskey.

 

[ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZapeCW_QPY&list=PL0wxk3jLYCTsr_k7uyWuGumnLqdk7cTSg&index=1)

 

_Another winter, years ago_

By far, it hadn’t been the first time that John had heard Sherlock play the violin. He could at least remember ten times prior when he had given into anger and yelled a frustrated _‘SHERLOCK!’_ from under the covers of his bed in the middle of the night. This had given a bit of a fright to Mrs Hudson, but eventually John had managed to negotiate that no instrument be played in 221B between one and six in the morning.

‘Dull.’ Sherlock had conceded with an aggravated roll of his eyes, and he had gone from the sofa to the window, riding the coffee table with a sigh in the process, his long midnight blue night robe slightly trailing on the floor behind him.

‘Necessary.’ John had corrected, before adding a pointed, ‘Thank you.’

It wasn’t even that he didn’t like the violin. He quite enjoyed it, in fact. But a chap should at least get his five hours of sleep - especially when he rarely even _got_ to sleep five hours straight when they were on a case. Somehow, though, he realized he seldom told Sherlock that he liked listening to his hasty concertos. That made John feel… self-conscious. Oh, he was sure Sherlock would enjoy the compliment. Or would he? The ruddy git may very well throw the violin into retirement by the window, deciding that if John and his boring little brain liked it, he had been wasting years of his life playing the instrument.

But Sherlock did so genuinely enjoy John’s compliments.

It hadn’t been the first time, by far, but that time John had been swept away. He had just opened the entrance door with a shaking breath and hung his wet hat, scarf and jacket, all covered in interlaced snowflakes, going directly for the stairs - Mrs Hudson wasn’t there? Probably went to see Mrs Turner next door, John thought - when he heard the first notes of the violin. No, not the beginning of a song, it was too… much, to be the beginning, too raw, too emotional, and maybe Sherlock had been playing for hours, maybe he had always been playing it, from ghost to ghost or soul to soul for generations, because when John caught the first ethereal notes, his heart was immediately pinned to them. Dancing that painful rhythm we all knew at least once in our lives, beating, slow but deep, and he held his breath as he quietly climbed the first step of the stairs.

Something was different this time.

John tried his best not to make a sound, feeling like a voyeur, which was a level of ridicule he was accustomed to these days when it came to Sherlock, and fortunately the violin absorbed the crack of the fourth step, so he went on, taking his time. His hands caressed the stale wallpaper as the violin whispered and called in turn, sad and free. He felt the mounts and curves of the slightly torn paper under his fingers, and he was made aware of the back and forth of his slow breathing, the movement of his chest as it expanded. Still the violin sang. Cried, really. The melody stilled, letting the sound of a piano -? - take over for a second, before Sherlock dominated it again, reclaimed it with a plea.

John made it to the top of the stairs and opened further the door, which already hung ajar, with the palm of his hand. The fire burnt high behind the grate, almost the only source of light on this cold winter evening save for the kitchen and a red lamp, but outside the snow seemed to be waltzing to the sweet adjuration. Sherlock had his back to him (fortunately - not that an audience always stopped him), and John couldn’t resist staring: his long limbs and tall body looked particularly elegant when he played, all fluid movements and sharp angles in his tailored suit. Sherlock’s profile looked pale and strong, but most of it was hidden from him and John could only see the luxurious brown curls crowning his brilliant brain.

John realized what made it different today. Sherlock was playing with his heart, rather than his genius mind.

He played with abandon. What had prompted this? With a disagreeable tug inside his chest, John immediately thought of Irene Adler. But she had died months ago in Pakistan. Not that Sherlock knew it. Was he still in love with her? Was he hoping for her to come back from America? The unsettling bitterness John had had to deal with when _The_ _Woman_ had been in Sherlock’s life diluted to a poisonous resignation in his blood, probably owing to the mournful tone of the melody.

The sounds of the piano providing accompaniment to the violin was coming from John’s laptop, he realized, and it was mere seconds after that that Sherlock partly turned his profile and spotted him.

The song was shot in a discordant screech as he stopped both the violin and then the piano right away with a swift swing of his legs and arms. John was brought back to life with a slap.

‘John, you’re here. Out having a drink with Mike Stamford, I see. Give me my phone.’

With a sigh (the phone was _on the bloody sofa_ ), he took off his leather gloves, did as he was told and glanced at the tabs scattered on the table. Their fingers brushed as they exchanged the object. He had never loved a performance of Sherlock’s as much as this one - Sherlock didn’t always bother to play well, but John still attributed that to an artless intelligence. Anyway, he would’ve liked to pick the title. Maybe to listen to it again later. It somehow sounded familiar.

To his surprise, Sherlock hastily extended his arm to the table, but it wasn’t to hide the tabs; instead, his fingers closed around a beautiful leather notebook barely the size of his hand. A diary? Before John could form words with his now open mouth, Sherlock made a show of putting it in the left inside pocket of his dressing gown, clearly indicating it was a private matter.

John shut his mouth, thought it over, and decided to jump in, for once.

‘I -’ He cleared his sore throat - bloody cold. ‘It was lovely. What you -’ He gestured to the violin, ‘what you were playing. Very… beautiful. You’re an amazing musician. Really, I loved it.’ Feeling actively self-conscious under Sherlock’s flat stare of , he felt compelled to avert his gaze a second and try to compose himself. ‘Sounds familiar, actually. What is it?’

He shouldn’t feel apprehensive to be met with Sherlock’s usual rejection, but he did, because that always _happened_ when he made a fool of himself, he knew it was going to -

‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure.’

Sometimes, Sherlock looked like an insufferable brat or the most obnoxious arsehole you’ll ever meet. And then, he would show this side of himself, a side John wasn’t quite sure how to label, and occasionally John told himself it was only for him, not Scotland Yard and not Irene Adler who wouldn’t come back, and the thought that there wasn’t someone else made his stomach flutter happily - guiltily. Sherlock looked strong and vulnerable, like the flames of the fire in winter, and John -

‘We need more groceries.’ Sherlock cut in, louder, finally bored with the silence. ‘I’ve made a list, the paper is on the table. I’ll probably go to Bart’s in a hour or so.’

‘Alright.’ John nodded, already fetching the paper and reading it out loud, or well, deciphering it, because Sherlock wrote his notes at the speed with which he had ideas. ‘Ice-cream, lemons and… unsalted nuts?’ He asked, raising his head and instinctively searching for the figure of his eccentric flatmate. ‘What the hell are _you_ going to do with ice-cream? And we _do_ have lemons. Is this for an experiment?’

‘No.’ Came the answer from the kitchen. ‘Or at least, I don’t remember. What did you say was on the list?’

John fought very hard to chase the _pissed off_ look from his face, and exhaled loudly. ‘ _Ice-cream, lemons and unsalted bloody nuts._ ’

‘Oh. No. No need for those. Thanks.’ John ran a hand over his mouth, but Sherlock appeared before him right at this moment with a sudden air of excitement and a gleam in his clear eyes. He grabbed his arms and enjoined, ‘Come on, John. Let’s solve a murder.’

 

Yet it had been, after all, years ago. Nothing quite changed save for John's departure of 221B - winter remained, and Sherlock played more and more, and more of this melody.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

The first time they had received the letter had been six days after the incident.

Despite their ups and downs, Mary had been of good comfort these three last weeks. She had let him grieve Sherlock a second time, and yes, Sherlock’s _“death”_ during the Reichenbach episode had been the most painful thing he had ever had to deal with - which was rather bloody telling for a veteran who had served for three years in Afghanistan - and, during the darkest nights of winter, he found peace knowing Sherlock was at least alive this time, but it was worse, in its own twisted way. It was worse pretending Sherlock was dead to him when they had been each other’s... best friends... for so long. The feeling of having to _hate_ him so fiercely for what he had done was suffocating, but so had been his betrayal, and John’s mind tried on its own at least six times a day to tell him to trust Sherlock, that he wouldn’t have done this to _him_ , he wouldn’t have tried to kill John’s child. And yet he had said so himself.

_Stand back, John, or I’ll shoot them both!_

Stop. Just - please. Not this scene again.

Unlike the first time he had lost him, John’s eyes remained dry. He let anger and resentment be his fuel when he was feeling too much, when the feeling of betrayal was too heavy, and Mary must have _really_ been dead in love with him to put up with the tantrums he had thrown at the beginning, breaking china and furniture alike before he fell onto their sofa and… remained. Motionless. Empty. Filled with the darkest thoughts and darkest feelings. Hours tickled by, sometimes slow, sometimes transparent as thin air, and Mary only warned him teasingly that he would clean himself the mess he had made, even if she brought him hot coffee or cocoa.

Then his traitorous mind would whisper again that maybe, just maybe… Because Sherlock wouldn’t do this to him, not without reason. _But he was going to kill your daughter_. No.

No.

‘You know, John… I think we both know he was jealous, in a way. Of me. I did take you away from him.’

Instinctively, John had taken Mary’s hand in his, but his thoughts had remained on Sherlock. _Was this it?_ Those… unspoken feelings between them. These… little things. John had always felt them, lingering, heavy in 221B; but in Baker Street, the two of them had fit like a glove, whereas when Sherlock had come back… Oh god. He massaged his eyes with two fingers. He didn’t want to think about it. The wedding.

‘What are you doing? Is that…’ Mary blinked when she saw what John was hastily putting back in one of the drawers of the living-room. ‘Oh. I didn’t know where it had gone. He didn’t stay long enough to play it a second time at our wedding, did he?’

John wondered if he was the only one picturing Sherlock going back to Baker Street alone in the middle of the night while all the people he cared about had been celebrating, dancing and cheering for John’s wedding. Of all the wedding gifts they had received, Sherlock’s present was his favourite.

After that, he couldn’t shake the paranoid fear that Mary would get rid of it, like the flash drive John had thrown into the fire on a Christmas day, but the envelope remained at the same place.

_Doctor and Mrs Watson_

The same careful, beautiful handwriting carved every single one of the 11 letters they had received so far - the ones John had seen, at least. It probably meant something too, that his name was so nicely shaped, but Sherlock was a master in the art of manipulating people, John included apparently, so he resented them all. He wanted to rip them, tear the paper apart. Couldn’t even bring himself to open them. Mary didn’t like that he would pick up most of the letters and pile them up on the counter of the kitchen, only to glare at them or ignore them entirely later, but never was he able to _delete_ them. He had tried to _delete_ Sherlock Holmes. A fruitless experiment, that one. He wasn’t a bloody sociopath.

The letters came to their front door approximately every two days. The first morning John didn’t receive one on the second day, he had spitefully thought, ‘ _Ah! Maybe he got the memo,_ ’ but couldn’t help the shattered sigh of relief that had escaped his lips when he had received it two days later. He knew Sherlock was in prison, but he tried not to register more than that.

The case had been a hellish one.

Days and weeks had blended together when they had first heard that Moriarty was back. Sherlock had been urgent, pushing them but most of all pushing himself beyond his limits, hardly stopping to eat or rest his _transport,_ as he called it - John had forced him to, in the end - and they had both fell back into their easy partnership, ‘ _the two of us against the rest of the world, John,'_ Sherlock had mumbled with a soft smile and a venomous, bitter voice on the verge of exhaustion one night. But they weren’t any closer to knowing if Moriarty was still alive, though John thought so.

Scotland Yard had required their help to catch a serial killer that Sherlock had deduced from three corpses found at three different places.

‘What could an arms dealer, a female student, and a civil servant _possibly_ have in common?’ Sherlock had asked, pacing and playing with his fingers as his mind tried to put pieces together. ‘Oh. Of course.’

He had grabbed his Belstaff and dashed out of the place before John could so much as utter a protest. He had been so _exhausted_. John had blinked, realizing he was now alone with Molly, and stood up.

‘Sherlock, where are you- Oh, for God’s sake.’

Calling him on his phone had proved futile. John should have tried harder, should have _told Mary_ to stay in Baker Street instead of helping him find him... because five hours later, John had been standing before his sobbing wife, his best friend holding a gun, and a warm corpse on the floor bathing in its own blood. Of course, at first John wouldn’t accept that it was what it looked like. He believed in Sherlock.

_Step back, John, or I’ll shoot them both!_

He closed his eyes. His heart constricted, weak and accustomed to the pain and gag that came with the memory of the voice. John had been sure until that very moment in the warehouse that another heartbreak would kill him.

There was no way he could still live feeling as much pain as the day he had seen Sherlock’s corpse on the pavement. No way he could survive another slow march of the dead, blurry years that had followed.

He had been wrong; he still went through most days, one by one.

‘Do you want me to read them for you?’ She had asked one day out of the blue.

‘Sorry?’

Mary’s face had been lined with concern and she had been kneeling in front of the sofa, a familiar envelope in one hand. It was open.

‘I did. I read them.’ She had confessed. ‘I couldn’t bear not knowing, so I opened this one and the three others. They’re all the same.’

‘I don’t care.’

They had both realized his voice had broken to a wet whisper in the last word, desperate, _angry_ , and he had cleared his throat, blinking rapidly towards the telly - he wouldn’t cry _now_ \- but Mary had been merciful enough not to draw attention to his emotion. He couldn’t face the pity in her eyes. He loathed it. She had put her hand above his; a slight tremor had run under the skin of the back of his hand, and he had resisted the urge to shake hers away.

Mary had pouted and unfolded the letter.

‘ _John_ ,’ She had started in an emotionless voice, ‘ _Pessimism often clutches at the mind of the rational-_ ’

Oh, God. Sherlock’s words. His malicious attempt to be forgiven for something he had done, that bastard. It hurt, _God it hurt._

‘ _Stop it_.’ He had demanded - begged. His voice had been even more quiet than it had been seconds before, a low rumble of aching misery.

‘... _not that I would_ -’

But then John had snapped.

‘I said _stop it!_ ’

The command had seemed uncharacteristically loud against the white walls, dangerous even, and he had realized a second too late that Mary, sweet Mary, assassin Mary, that stranger he had married and made Mrs Watson, had reverted back to old instincts and opened his eyes wider as she had flinched in a more defensive posture. Protecting her belly with a hand. Before John could confusedly apologize, she had forced a tiny smile on her lips and gotten on her feet to press a kiss on his head.

‘I’ll leave it here, just in case.’

And then it had been only John and Sherlock. Or at least, the ghost of Sherlock. In the overly lit sitting room, the letter had seemed to take up all the space. It was oppressive. John hadn’t been able breath too deeply, to move, to gaze away from it for fear that it would have touched him, run through his skin and forced him to bend and grab it, to let ink on a paper slide into a deep, familiar voice, let Sherlock _in_ , when he could barely keep him _out_. He couldn’t move an inch.

At some point, he had suddenly reminded himself that he was Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and he was no bloody coward. With the next breath, he had been standing, fixedly watching the bleached wall in front of him. He had pointedly ignored the insulting piece of paper, and went to bed with Mary.

They never touched each other intimately anymore, but that night John did.

 

[ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPNUp9DwFR0&index=26&list=PL0wxk3jLYCTsr_k7uyWuGumnLqdk7cTSg)

 

Seconds ticked by one after the other. Unhurried. Deliberate in their cruelty. The incessant _tick, tick, tick_ of the clock kept Doctor Watson on his toes, making him grumble low in his throat when it proved too much. Sometimes he told himself that the ruddy clock was his own personal form of water drop torture. And _dammit_ , he hated the light song playing in the waiting room. Surely the war had not brought him closer to death? (Of course it had.)

Life with Sherlock had never been boring. _Here it goes_ , he sighed irritably, and crushed the unruly thought.

He had to stop this. Sherlock was - a criminal, perhaps, fine. But he didn’t hold against him the murder of this shady Griffin fellow, no. In fact, John would have jumped to his side if only Sherlock hadn’t so diligently confirmed to the police that he had not only killed Griffin, but also that he had been attempting to _murder John’s family_. The police had arrived on the crime scene mere seconds after John. His voice had been so _detached_. Bored, even. John had refused to look at him, but he hadn’t been able to shut out the voices, Sherlock’s unapologetic behaviour and cutting tone.

 _‘Yes,_ of course _that was me, you spineless excuse for a wimp. I was caught red-handed with the murder weapon in my hand, and there is a witness. What else do you need? Should I shoot her in front of you? Where is Anderson? I feel like_ he _might even be smarter than you.’_

‘Doctor Watson?’

John tore himself from his thoughts and turned his head to Bill, his wife’s substitute at the surgery. He was shyly peering into his office.

‘Oh, yes. I’m ready for the 11 o’clock appointment Bill, bring him in.’

‘I -’

His back to the door, John was already putting on his latex gloves to take care of Mr Dunn’s prostate issues when he heard the door creak open.

‘Please,’ He greeted, ‘get ready and spread your legs. I’m yours in a minute.’

John turned around, bracing himself as he said, ‘Let’s take a look at this prostate, shall we, hmm?’, but first shock then utter mortification froze him to the spot when he saw who was standing there in place of Mr. Dunn.

For God’s sake. Of _all people_.

‘Thank you for the offer, but I believe my prostate is just fine, Doctor Watson.’

Fingers tightly wrapped around the handle of his eternal umbrella, Mycroft held himself straight as an arrow, his chin high and patronizing as ever, though John hadn’t been able to _giggle_ _at crime scenes_ or other delicious foolishness in months, _years_ now, so he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve the scorn.

John’s first instinct was to think that something had happened with Sherlock (he wasn’t wrong). Maybe he had escaped. But then he took a second glance at Mycroft and realized that his bluish eyes weren’t bored but tired, concerned; his posture wasn’t elegant - it was tensed and strained. All in all, he looked a bit disheveled, as if he had just had a drunken brawl and quickly dressed up in a nice, clean outfit thereafter, and John realized that if something had happened with Sherlock, this wasn’t something good.

‘Why are you…’ _Damn_ his voice! He gulped and pointed at the floor with a finger, raising his eyebrows. ‘here?’

‘He’s fine.’ Mycroft soothed, and John hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear this until his shoulders liquefied with relief. But then Mycroft’s expression darkened. ‘At least, he’s alive.’

‘What happened?’

He didn’t need Mycroft’s evaluating gaze to know what the man was currently thinking: how quickly old instincts kicked in when it came to Sherlock’s safety, even though John’s voice was laced with angry resentment and reluctance. Mycroft assessed him nonetheless, and John sighed with irritation under his stare, furrowing his brows, left finger nervously tapping against his hip. Steam would very soon literally blow out of the pores of his body. This, all of this, this past month, had been too much. Bloody-

‘ _You_ came here!’ He pointed out. ‘So you are either going to tell me what’s going _on_ or get a feel for my skills at a prostate check-’

‘Sherlock is starving himself.’

Now, maybe that should have freaked him out, but John was rightfully furious after what had happened and more than a little annoyed at Sherlock’s timely melodrama. His heart had jumped, but this was none of his business anymore. So, what, Mycroft wasn’t able to feed his brother by force? Surely that was something he would consider doing.

‘Of course, I put him under medical surveillance.’ He added, probably reading John’s thoughts. Mycroft looked downward, defeated, as he went on, ‘But that’s only the latest… innovation he found to pressure me. He continually comes up with more creative ways to harm himself. He’s always on the brink of suicide, but it’s only to get my attention. He’s... dealing very badly with incarceration.’

John’s head felt dizzy. Nothing moved in the room, and yet it spun lightly, losing its balance, and John pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Sherlock. Of course he would _hate_ being confined to a room without something to occupy his mind.

‘Does he want to… get out?’ John eventually asked, reluctantly. ‘How long will Sherlock be in there?’

‘Years. Though he won’t live that long if he keeps jeopardizing his health with such fervour. His favorite hobby is to keep me up to date as to the amount of time he thinks he has left.’ John raised his eyes into Mycroft’s pained ones; Sherlock had never understood how much his brother genuinely worried about him. ‘No, he doesn’t ask to be released. He only does all of that to ensure that you receive the letters he sends you. I think he somehow ended up thinking you weren’t receiving them.’

The sarcasm in his voice gave the final twist to that nasty something in John’s insides. He held his ground, squaring his jaw as his hands uselessly clenched and loosened at his sides, because he had _every right not to read the bloody letters_. Yes, Sherlock was a drama queen. And yes, John was arrogant enough to think that _maybe_ Sherlock would go so far just to get his friendship back. But what if… maybe… _Oh stop it, John Watson, you’ve been looking for a way to explain Sherlock’s behaviour since the start_. But what _if_ he did have it all wrong? _Couldn’t be. I saw him holding the gun._

‘You were the one to tell me that Sherlock was clearly the killer.’ John reminded him to underscore the stupidity of the situation. ‘That he… was trying to… hm?’

He didn’t finish his sentence, but Mycroft answered nonetheless.

‘I know what I’ve said.’

John must have looked conflicted, because Mycroft gave him a few extra seconds to collect his thoughts, alternating between nonchalantly dusting himself and carefully analyzing John’s hands. When he saw the tic, a ghost of a smile appeared on his face. He then pulled out an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and extended it to John.  

‘Just… read it, will you?’

John looked back and forth between Mycroft and the letter. The elder brother’s impassive façade had been steadily slipping, and his voice was now nothing more than a pleading sigh. He looked again at the beautiful, threatening calligraphy. Nodded.

‘Thank you. That’s almost all he wanted me to do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, after this I’ll try to take care of my work, or at least what I can before my little brother demands my undivided attention once again.’

‘‘ _almost all he wanted’_?’ John inquired, despite himself.

‘Yes. But of course, you need to read it first.’

‘Read it?’ John repeated, blinking furiously, shy smile on his lips. ‘Now? With you?’ He clarified dubiously. He wasn’t sure he could survive the whole ordeal of Sherlock pleading in the first place, so expecting himself to keep a straight face before Mycroft as he read it was something else.

‘ _Yes_.’ Mycroft’s mouth stretched out in creepy smile which told John that he was probably inwardly categorized as _imbecile_ or _simpleton_. ‘And before the year ends, if you don’t mind.’

‘Right.’

John fumbled with the envelope - off-white, thick, just like the others - Mycroft probably provided them - which only featured the Watsons’ address on the front, and pulled out the letter - quality paper, also off-white. Nothing odd, nothing… out of the ordinary. And looking for clues in front of Mycroft really left him feeling like a child who hadn’t done his homework.

‘Are you quite done?’

Despite his pointed glare in Mycroft’s direction, he hurriedly unfolded the letter. His fingers were surprisingly steady given that his left hand had been shaking lately, but he couldn’t ignore the loud hammering of his heart in his chest, nor the sweat gathering on his Cupid’s bow. He felt nervous.

Muffling a throat clearing in his fist, he started firmly: ‘John.’

‘Not _out loud_ , for pity’s sake!’ Mycroft admonished, pressing two fingers over his eyes. This was proof enough that both of them weren’t quite at ease.

Oh. Right. Good.

Sherlock’s letter probably said things John didn’t want to hear, let alone expose to someone else’s judgement. Even if he would’ve sworn on a stack of Bibles that Mycroft had probably read it, if not outright analyzed the letter with the closest attention. Because, yes, John could be a helpless romantic and this could be a simple apologetic letter about what had happened - and his heart _throbbed_ with fury at the idea - or, perhaps, it could be more than that, if Sherlock was willing to go to such great lengths for him to see this.

John inhaled deeply, and started reading.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, here comes the first coded letter! I would've been clueless in John's place. If you manage to crack it though, I owe you a lifetime of free prompts. Or a formal knighting - whatever sounds better.

 

 

 

 

_Tik, tik._

The ruddy clock never sounded so loud as it did the two seconds before John braced himself to read Sherlock’s letter.

The message itself was written in a equally diligent, pointy handwriting and took most of the page; John also noted that it had been written in three-line ver- did Sherlock write _poetry?_ Jeez, thank God no, it wasn’t. It had been written in three-line _paragraphs_ , apparently. Realizing he was already looking for clues, John looked up at Mycroft - no way to avoid this, eh? - then frowned and distractedly shifted his weight to his good leg. Hm. Here goes. The letter started as such:

_“John,_

_Pessimism often clutches at the mind of the rational -_  
_not that I would hold it against you this time, Captain_ _  
Watson, but you must listen to me very carefully_.“

The frown on his face deepened. What an arrogant prick. And… something... felt off. Somewhere. However, each line had brought a different degree of irritation on his face and, overcome with it, he sighed through his nose, clenching his teeth.

 _“Obviously, I imagine you are now scoffing, angry,_  
_xerotic dermatitis itching your moistureless eyes dry from_ _  
a sorrow you won’t let yourself feel. I am sorry, John._ “

He inhaled, all too conscious of Mycroft’s sharp gaze on him. _Spot-on, Sherlock. Really. You - utter cock, why do you_ think _I feel like that?_ The word ‘ _sorry_ ’ wasn’t near enough, would never be, but it forced John to close his eyes for a second, forced him to stretch his neck. He could hear Sherlock’s voice in his mind as he read this. When he felt more collected, John decided to read it in one-go, and his eyes didn’t stop dancing from left to right until another... difficult passage.

 _“Baker Street, I think, must grieve the adventures_  
_of Sherlock Holmes and his blogger right now, though_ _  
maybe not as much as I do here, everyday."_

(His heart constricted. A hopeless organ, that one.)

 _“_ Dares _he ask for my forgiveness now?’ Oh, but I am a ridiculous,_  
_presumptuous, arrogant man, John. Please. I can explain. I can_ _  
make it right. I am only redeemed by your friendship, my clever friend._

 _Regrets make my chest feel tight at night. Days barely let me_  
_untie the deathly grip you hold on my heart and on my_ _  
mind. I don’t like it._ ”

Each line was painful at this point, distasteful, a physical blow in his chest, a pillow against his mouth and nose, hampering his breathing, making it hard to fill his lungs with air. He was suffocating. _Sherlock_ , his mind begged, but his heart bled. _Oh, Sherlock_. There were no words for this, really. Sherlock was suffering in prison because all of this - because their relationship had gone so terribly wrong along the line, and John couldn’t pinpoint when. _Your wedding, proposing to Mary, moving out of Baker Street._

 _I don’t like it either, you arse. In case that can make you feel any better_. He thought, and forced himself to finish the letter without looking up. _Damn_ Mycroft!

 _“ ‘χαίρε’ John - an ancient Greek word for_ goodbye _. Please let_  
_Mary know that I am sorry things are the way they are._  
Ultimately, I am yours to torment or forgive.  
_\- SH”_

Many a sigh were needed after that.

God. This was. Christ. When he realized he couldn’t expel all the emotions he was feeling through his nose though, he raised his eyes to Mycroft’s. Given the man’s slight recoil, John supposed he looked positively _murderous_. He showed the piece of paper and shook it deliberately.

‘That’s it, hm? That’s the message?’

The cold, calculating eyes assessed him carefully.

‘You didn’t find what you were looking for?’

‘If I didn’t find- That doesn’t even _start_ to cover it! What am I supposed to answer to _this_ , hm? What could I possibly _do?_ I’m all ears, _please,_  tell me! ’

He didn’t realize his voice had risen to a yell before he heard Bill softly soothe the patients in the next room. ‘ _It’s okay, I’m sure everything is fine. Doctor Watson will soon be ready to see you_.’

A silence only interrupted by John’s heavy breathing fell between them. Mycroft didn’t seem startled by his outburst. If anything, he looked like he hadn’t heard a word of what John said, which could have been infuriating and could have pushed John to throttle him if that wouldn’t have been seen at _overreacting_. _Jesus Christ_. He had been such a fool. Thinking these letters had been some kind of magical solution to this situation, some kind of… _balm_ on the foul wounds of his cracked heart. It wasn’t a medicine. It wasn’t even the fucking needle that would stitch up the dying flesh.

It was Sherlock needing him, and that _tore_ him apart. He was furious.

He was disappointed.

‘I take that as a no.’ Mycroft replied eventually with apparent detachment. ‘There is nothing more to it, then?’

It occurred to John that Mycroft also expected there would be more to the letter than meets the eye, but that he had obviously reached the same conclusion as John had. _Or... Mycroft simply didn’t find it_ , John’s mind offered, ever blindly trying to find a fix, but he inwardly scolded his mind with a mental slap. Still, when he answered, John felt the disagreeable prickling of the lie running up his neck.

‘No.’ He said, showing the piece of paper, ‘ _this_ is pure dramatics.’

‘Alright. I’ll tell my little brother you have read his letter.’ A silence, awkward. ‘Be well, Doctor Watson.’

 

 

Predictably, John found it hard to concentrate at work after this.

Despite his best, his very resolute efforts to put the incident entirely behind him, he soon realized that Sherlock’s words kept playing in the back of his mind whenever he would let himself be distracted. Fragments of sentences would be whispered in his ear in a deep, low baritone at the oddest times, and more than once he had to apologize and pinch the bridge of his nose to just _snap out of it_.

_Days barely let me untie the deathly grip you hold on my heart and on my mind._

This one. This was the worst.

John was pissed to realize that it came very close to the most romantic thing someone had ever told him. He was impossibly angry that it was _Sherlock_ , of all people, _Sherlock_ , not his wife, not his ex-girlfriends, but the man who had so magnificently chucked out their friendship, the bloody sociopath, that would say things as ‘ _Ultimately, I am yours to torment or forgive_ ’ and send John’s thoughts and heart spiraling out of control.

_yours to torment_

Oh God, how I _wish_ I could torment you.

For the tenth time that day, he grabbed the letter from the drawer of his desk and read it again, mindful of the door that had been left ajar.

This - This part: ‘ _not that I would hold it against you, Captain Watson_ ’, it sounded off. What was the formal title about? Sherlock never called him that. He was John. He had always been John to Sherlock. But he couldn’t put his finger on anything else outwardly suspicious. Some sentences sounded outdated - but that was Sherlock being Sherlock - and some details had put him off, but he could see no pattern. And what was that Greek word about? Showing off?

Stop it, John, you _sodding fool_. There’s nothing more to it, this is just a stupid letter. Just - Let him go. You, my friend, are Doctor John Watson, husband to Mrs. Mary Watson, and soon-to-be father. _Let Sherlock Holmes go_.

Twenty minutes later, he was reaching inside his drawer again.

 

[ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rW35YTKYq8&index=4&list=PL0wxk3jLYCTsr_k7uyWuGumnLqdk7cTSg)

 

_Not so long ago, still winter_

Strong had been the wind slapping the cold, exposed flesh of the Londoners; freezing, wet, it had slipped under their clothes, skimmed their scalps as it had rushed to the open door of 221B Baker Street. When John closed it, the wind had crashed against the wood in a disappointed whistling wheeze.

Greg’s birthday had somehow ended up at Baker Street. John didn’t quite remember how, because he’d admittedly had his fair share of beer at the pub when they had left St. Barts and he had been a teensy bit tipsy when it had all come together, but by the time they arrived at 221B, he was feeling like himself again - a damn relief, considering the two persons he was about to face.

He had overheard Mrs Hudson greet Molly behind them (‘ _Molly Hooper! I’m so glad to see you my dear, I really am. What are you young people up to?’ ‘This is Greg’s birthday!’ ‘His_ birthday? _Oh, happy birthday Detective. Let me fetch you a little something to eat, I’ll bring it upstairs.’_ ), and had opened the door.

Sitting at the table, Sherlock had turned his head to him in a familiar, easy way that had made John’s heart swell - it felt like coming home. The burn of the chilly winter night outside was almost enjoyable when followed by the warm comfort of this sight. _Sherlock is alive_. John still wasn’t always used to seeing him occupy their flat with that demanding presence of his, so he often tried to suppress a sudden, blasted spontaneous smile. It wouldn’t do to let the sly bastard know that he'd been completely forgiven for his fake suicide. John didn’t linger on Sherlock’s elongated, nonchalant cat-like form however, nor on the fact that the man had unsurprisingly kept the same attire as he had worn earlier this morning: a loose grey shirt, silk large pants and his favorite night robe.

Mary had been here too. Arms folded under her chest, she had screwed up her eyes and immediately remarked, ‘There’s something off with him.’

‘He’s been drinking.’ Sherlock had provided helpfully, going back to whatever he had been doing on John’s computer. What a terrible idea to bring it with him today. ‘Three beers. He didn’t empty his bladder at the pub because the glasses were obviously filthy. That, and John is overconfident in his ability to control his bodily functions, which could tell everyone a lot about his sexual prowesses. _Three-Continents Watson._ ’

‘It does tell something.’ Mary agreed. ‘He is.’

Sherlock’s rhythmic flow of words had slowed down on the nickname John had inherited from his time in the army, separating the words from the rest of the deduction to underline them with heightened consonants, almost as if he were considering them, tasting the syllables one by one, which had in turn made John take an extra-second to dumbfoundedly rise up against his wife.

‘Wait, what? Hold on.’ Since when had Mary not been satisfied with their sex life?

‘There were stains of limescale on the glass,’ Sherlock had went on, ‘which means they were probably at the pub on Boyd street, or the one on Hessel.’ With a glance over his shoulder, he guessed, ’Hessel. Either way, he’ll soon need to use the _loo_.’ His mouth had wrapped over the vowels of the last word slowly, without derision this time.

His fiancee had pouted appreciatively before returning her accusative attention to him. John had groaned. He was glad the two of them got along, but it was quite unsettling. Of _course_ it would be at his expense. They would be the death of him, he had thought fondly.

Before long, the modest celebration had begun; Mary had reluctantly agreed to a glass of champagne before heading home with a soft, surprisingly long kiss for John on the threshold that had left him raising his eyebrows and smiling smugly. ‘ _You’re coming home tonight, alright?_ ’ She had wickedly whispered against his lips.

Sherlock had been uncharacteristically quiet after that, but John hadn’t made the connection.

(Molly had, she always did.)

‘Oh, Sherlock!’ Mrs Hudson had exclaimed at one point - her fourth glass of wine probably was to blame for her slightly inebriated giddiness. ‘Pick up that violin of yours, will you? We’d _love_ it if you could just play us a little song, for the birthday!’

Sherlock’s skeptical stare had been the most obvious feature of his blatant contempt. ‘I’m quite sure George’s idea of a nice birthday doesn’t involve me playing the violin.’

‘George?’ Mrs Hudson noted, startled. ‘Who is _George?_ ’

‘He meant Greg.’ John corrected with a sigh, but Lestrade’s mouth had already twisted with offense. In some way, it oddly clashed with the bloody awful pink and purple striped tie he had been wearing that evening. At least Sherlock was getting somewhat closer to his actual name. John lifted his glass slightly and rejoined, ‘Come on, Sherlock. I’d thought you’d be happy to show off a bit in front of people. Usually it’s only me.’ _Or at least it used to be._

Before Sherlock could retort, Mrs Hudson, soon joined by Molly, clapped and cheered ‘ _Sherlock! Sherlock!’_ and, after a few seconds, he graciously obliged. John’s insufferable show-off.

In a sharp, oddly graceful move, Sherlock had stood up from his armchair near the window, uselessly straightening his dressing gown with a hasty pull, and had grabbed his violin. Without raising his eyes to theirs, he had walked to the window, looked outside - and waited. Had Sherlock been peering into the night for the moon or the wind, or into their reflection on the glass? John hadn’t known. He had only marked that an eerie silence had fallen in the room and, in the midst of this quiet expectation, Sherlock’s pupils had seemed to move slightly on the window, setting for a precise point in the room. For a second, John had thought it was him. The warm, low light had made it look that way. Sherlock shut his eyes and started playing.

At the first notes, Molly had startled and opened her mouth in an excited ‘ _Oh!_ ’, but her expression had soon faded to something much more sad by the end of the song. Similar expressions had ornamented the faces of his guests. Chagrin. Pity. Empathy. John had frowned and tried to remember where he had heard the tune, but couldn’t. Sherlock looked at he always did. Brilliant, gorgeous, strong but oddly vulnerable. Why were they so surprised? Yes, well, Sherlock seldom looked _vulnerable_ to the outside world, and he certainly wasn’t often this quiet.

During the song, Molly, Greg and Mrs Hudson had shared glances that had made John feel out of place. When it had ended, he had been even more frustrated to see Molly give Sherlock a sorry smile as Mrs Hudson sympathized with a plaintive ‘ _Oh Sherlock…’_   whereas no one had seemed to be inclined to tell _him_ what was going on.

‘What was that song again?’ He’d asked Greg innocently, but the man had pursed his lips and shrugged.

‘I can’t remember it for the life of me.’

‘Me neither.’ Molly had quickly added when John’s questioning gaze had turned to her.

Mrs Hudson had outright ignored him - which may or may not have vexed him - and had congratulated Sherlock.

‘Sherlock?’ John had tried with an expectant rise of his eyebrows, hands now folded behind his back as he had rocked between heels and tip-toe. ‘It seemed pretty recent.’

‘I heard it once on the radio on my way to Bart's.’ Had been all he’d been able to get from him.

When the silence had stretched to an uncomfortable five seconds, Mrs Hudson had broken it all of the sudden by offering to bring a cake, and the heavy atmosphere had dissolved immediately. Sherlock had gone back to his experiments, and John had done his best to take an interest in something else.

The surprise of the evening had been the unexpected presence of Mycroft, who had been there to ‘ _have a few words with Sherlock_ ’ and had seemed genuinely surprised to see them all gathered in 221B. The elder Holmes had actually smiled when Lestrade had offered to pour him a glass of wine (‘ _Wine, Mister Holmes?’_ , thick accent melding with his casual tone of speech).

‘With pleasure, thank you.’ And when he had taken the glass from Lestrade’s fingers, ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘It’s Greg’s birthday.’ Molly had answered in a small yet cheerful voice. She looked like she was doing her best not to be scared of Mycroft.

‘Oh… The birthday boy!’ As was inherent in all of Mycroft’s attempts at casual banter, there was an odd, predatory creepiness about him, but neither Molly nor Greg seemed to mind it.

John had excused himself and turned his back on them to go to Sherlock, who was still occupied with his experiments. The consulting detective had expressed his annoyance earlier at the prospect of a party, and of course John had told his guests not to take offense, but he still felt the need to check on him. It was a weak excuse, and John realized it. No matter that they had been in the same room, a true, empty longing had weighed on his heart - he had _missed_ Sherlock at this moment. Celebrations often make people feel lonely, John had reflected.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What’s that?’ Sherlock had replied as John had put something next to him. ‘Food. Oh. I see Mycroft gets a glass of wine but no one offers some to me.’

He was too used to their petty siblings jealousy by now to roll his eyes. Instead, John had reminded him, ‘Molly brought you some. The glass is right there, you haven’t touched it.’

‘Ah, right.’

‘And I’d rather you ate a bit before drinking. When was the last time you ate? Surely not this afternoon, Mary didn’t cook.’

Sherlock didn’t bother replying. Behind them, the sounds of conversation and laughter flowed happily. He’d continued to take notes and look into his microscope in turn, and John had soon realized the notes were part of the seating plans for his wedding on which they had been working earlier that day.

‘What has whatever it is you’re looking at in the microscope to do with my wedding?’ He had then asked, baffled.

‘Nothing. You see John, minds like mine, which are used more than their bare minimum, can do multiple things at once.’ John gave him a flat stare. ‘There’s a note in the pocket of my night robe. Take it and read it to me.’

‘Can’t your multi-tasking brain do it itself?’ He had countered sarcastically, but of course, he was already bending to reach inside Sherlock’s pocket. Since he’d been leaning above Sherlock’s shoulder, his chest pressed against his back and - yes, it felt good. In spite of everything - Mary, moving out - John wanted their casual physical contact back. It felt like a first breath.

The pocket had, however, been dangerously close to Sherlock’s crotch, and when John had reached inside with his eyes decidedly fixed on the window and the cold, dark night outside which made them feel so cozy here at home, his fingers had brushed against his thigh. Sherlock had blinked, suddenly petrified. John had mirrored him when the pocket had proved to be empty. Well, this was embarrassing.

‘The pocket _inside_ my night robe, John.’

‘Oh!’

He’d hurriedly taken his hand _off_ his best friend’s leg and went to retrieve the note without commenting on the light flush on Sherlock’s cheeks.

Inside, his fingers had touched something else though, something roughly the size of his own hand. Leather? There had been pages. A small book. _Sherlock’s diary_. The one he’d had a glimpse years ago when he had come upon his friend playing alone the beautiful tune. Before he could even clasp his fingers around it or draw them back though, all of a sudden Sherlock’s hand had flattened down above his in a firm, almost painful grip. John had let go immediately. His palm, however, had still been pressed against the cover of the diary and he had been able to feel Sherlock’s steady, strong heartbeat through it. John had absentmindedly licked his lips.

‘Oh, no, John, my _friend_.’ There had been something aggressive to the word, like he was used to spit  _sentiment_. ‘You don’t get to take this. _This_ ’ He had emphasized, pressing down John’s hand on the notebook and its weak beatings, ‘this is my heart. My code. You could crack it, I’m sure, clever you. _Heaven_ knows you’ll try. But not now, not while I’m still here to protect it. Captain Watson.’ Sherlock’s lips had _popped_ around the title.

Stunned out of his mind by Sherlock’s sudden intensity as well by this unexpected turn of events, John had mumbled a ‘Right, sorry’ and had cautiously tried to grab the piece of paper he’d felt in the pocket. Sherlock had let him; had taken his hand off John’s and waited for him to unfold the note.

‘These are… names.’ He had confusedly realized. ‘Is this for a case?’

‘Your propension to state the obvious never fail to amaze me, John. No, it’s not for a _case_. It’s for your _wedding_. I’m trying to decide on who not to invite to the party.’

John had chuckled. ‘I thought this would be something Mary and I should decide.’

‘Mary finds this tiresome, while I very much appreciate discarding people. But if you’re not content with my-’

‘No. No. ’ John had hurriedly contradicted, ‘You are - amazing. You are amazing, Sherlock. You, you are the best best man I could have hoped for. I am… very happy you care so much about the wedding.’

Sherlock had not answered, but John hadn’t expected him to. Besides, complimenting Sherlock always left John both thirsty and afraid - he always worried that once he started he wouldn’t stop pushing, pushing for more, but each word rasped in his throat and he had to force them out. Behind them, the fire still burned languidly.

John had exhaled and handed the piece of paper. ‘Here. The note.’

‘Read it to me.’ He had countered. ‘That helps me think.’

John’s heart had sped up and bumped into his rib cage when he had felt Sherlock’s head leaning back against his chest. He had taken a glance down and seen his brown curls pressed against his jumper. Long, black eyelashes embellished his shut eyelids and angular face, his high cheekbones and pink, full-formed lips. A comforting feeling had washed over John, a need to _protect_ , the satisfaction of being trusted with the task, and he had barely resisted the temptation to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He had remembered Mary and had instantly sobered.

_You’re coming home tonight, alright?_

‘Yes. So. The lucky nominees are… Irene.’ Sherlock’s head had bounced lightly against his stomach when John had inhaled a bit too deeply - he had glanced at him but no feminine shadow from their past had run over his face. ‘Luc. Oscar, a chap named Vince... Eric?’ He hadn’t been familiar with half of the names, must’ve been Mary’s side. ‘Yann, Olivia and U…Ur-i-el. Who’s that guy?’

After a steadying breath, Sherlock’s eyes had shot open and he had gone back to his previous position. Despite his thick jumper and the warmth in the room, John had suddenly felt the jab of loss and winter. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Sherlock had answered. ‘He’s out. You can cross his name.’

John had shaken his head and chuckled once again.

After this, they had not spoken for a little while, and the first to break the companionable silence - John had not been eager to leave - had been Sherlock. Behind them, they heard Greg thank everyone and say he really ought to go; Mycroft had promptly offered to take him back home. ‘Ms Hooper also, of course.’ Sherlock had scoffed.

When the last echo of people climbing down the stairs had died, Sherlock had quickly jumped to his feet to take a look out the window for a few seconds. He had squinted his eyes, scoffed again, but had not made a comment on what he’d seen.

‘Goodnight, John.’ He had then said, clearly dismissing his last guest; John’s mouth had twisted in displeasure as he had longingly watched the naked, slender back of Sherlock’s neck. ‘See you soon, I hope.’

Right. Time to head _home_.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

[ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsU9zmnZ37g&index=8&list=PL0wxk3jLYCTsr_k7uyWuGumnLqdk7cTSg)

 

_χαίρε._

The Greek word was the first to go. That potential lead had in fact disappointedly led to _nowhere_ ; it did mean what Sherlock had said in the letter - that is, _goodbye_. Great reminder, Sherlock. Bloody amazing. No one in particular that John should know of had ever said it, or anything like it. He had used his lunch break to dash to the library to be sure. _Nothing_.

His next idea had been to try and read only the first word or first letter of every line. Dead-end, again - and Sherlock would’ve screamed in agony if he’d seen John contemplate the possibility that _his genius brain_ would consider such a simple trick. Besides, Mycroft had apparently not picked up on whatever the message was, if there was one… and neither had Mary.

_Maybe because there is no secret message._

‘ _Dammit!’_ He shouted, and slammed a hand against his desk.

The pain pulsed in a sudden throb in his metacarpal bones for a few seconds. When one of his coworkers peeked inside to make sure everything was okay, John smiled tightly and apologized. Took his face between his hands. He was a fool. Sherlock… Sherlock was messing with his mind. That was the point of the letter. To make him feel sorry, to make him rush to his rescue.

_Alright Watson_ , he told himself once again, _this may be painful to hear, but you… hoped for something that is not there_. _You always have, when it comes to him, face it._

He told his coworkers he wasn’t feeling well at his next break and used the time to read the letter in every combination of words possible. Backwards was the most _stupid_ idea he had that day. Reading one word out of three didn’t work either, nor did _any_ other skip code. It came close to something with “ _carefully angry from John_ ” when he only read the _last_ word of each sentence, and then he had nearly cried in despair - or laughed, he couldn’t remember which. Probably both. God, this was absurd. There were no sodding _pattern_ , and if there was one, he wasn’t cut out for the task. He wasn’t the consulting detective. He wasn’t some bloody genius.

_my clever friend_

The words sang mercilessly before his weary eyes.

John shut them. Alright, Sherlock. Alright. I’ll try.

The end of his shift came, and John headed home no closer to a breakthrough than he had been in the bloody morning. By then, he’d tried to read it with a shifted alphabet encoding, with the Block Cipher method, and a couple of other things he remembered from years ago. The thing was, that he couldn’t possibly look for more on the internet, in case Mycroft was watching - though he didn’t know what they’d have to hide from Mycroft that would be so terrible.

When he finally stepped out of his car, John stopped in his tracks and looked at a rose bush near the front wall of the house. Had they managed to feed Sherlock? And what other - God. John shivered in the cold, massaging his eyelids with two fingers. What else could that _pillock_ possibly have _done_ to get Mycroft to listen to him?

Winter had not been kind to the flower either. The rose bush was a long, slim thing which had outlived most of the plants Mary had not yet killed with her approximative gardening skills. The stubborn plant looked a bit sad and pathetic now, or at least John thought it did during sunny days. But here, now, bare and exposed in the snowfall, flawed, strong, proud, counterbalancing the lack of pretty, colourful petals by the sharpness of its thorns, covered in frost and snow, you just wanted to encircle it with your arms, to warm him back to life, out of the cold, to delicately brush off the deadly snowflakes which he never seemed to-

The window of the kitchen opened in front of his face. ‘Thinking about me?’ Mary asked with a big smile.

John blinked against the influx of light coming from their house. Oh. He realized his feet were damp with molten snow. His teeth were chattering and his ears, nose and fingers felt numb. He probably looked numb right now.

‘Well, yes.’ He answered with a strained smile.

The idea of telling Mary about the letter didn’t seem natural, but concealing his restlessness, as they lazily watched a slow programme about child labour on the telly, was harder than he had thought. Mary didn’t question him, if she even noticed at all that this was different from his usual unease around her.

Yet, the next day at the surgery, John managed to pretend for about an hour that he wasn’t anxious to continue his investigation. Then he gave up and hastily took the piece of paper out of his drawer - Jeez, _finally_. About bloody time. By now, he knew the letter by heart, but still he couldn’t come up with an idea. If _Mycroft himself_ had not f- Wait. Hold on. What if… Of course. What if the letter was coded only for John? What if only _John_ could understand it? With skills only he had, maybe? What made John _special?_

He was... an ex-army doctor. Right. Okay. He was a doctor, and had been a soldier. Two very different things. Could it be encrypted with medical knowledge? Perhaps, since Sherlock mentioned xerotic dermatitis, which was odd, but he _had_ called him Captain-

_Captain Watson._

_This, this is my heart. My code. You could crack it, I’m sure, clever you. Heaven knows you’ll try. But not now, not while I’m still here to protect it. Captain Watson._

The diary.

His heart throbbed and protested against the sudden cacophony of the blood rushing in and out of the tiny organ. His breath had quickened. 221B. The answer would be in 221B. Yes. John quickly looked at his watch - _dammit!_ He still had three patients to receive. Right. Fine. He couldn’t, he’ll go tonight, after his shif-

His chair screeched on the floor and the door slammed loudly. John apologized to his patients, mumbled something stupid to the secretary, and scampered, jogged, ran under the rain outside until he made it to the road and hailed a cab.

‘221B, Baker Street, please.’ He panted in an inharmonious high-pitched voice.

The damn, the promising letter was drenched in rain when he unfolded it to read it under the indifferent gaze of the cabby. But it didn’t matter; he did knew it by heart now. As he considered the possibility of the message being coded in the NATO phonetic alphabet used in the army, John distractedly ran a hand through his wet hair, combing it back. Not once had Sherlock used the words _alpha, beta, charlie_ and so on. So that wasn’t it. The army, the army... His left foot nervously tapped against the car, and he practically jumped out of the cab to get to the flat.

When he finally managed to get the bloody key _in_ , he passed by Mrs Hudson’s open door at full throttle and apologized in a tense shout, ‘Not now, Mrs Hudson! Everything’s fine, don’t worry if you hear some noise, I might be moving the furniture.’

He distantly registered, ‘Are you sure you’re quite alright? Is this about Sherlock?’ followed by, ‘You better tidy up your mess when you’re done, John Watson, I am _not_ your housekeeper!’ and stormed into their living room breathing heavily. His eyes fell on the table still full of books and papers.

‘Alright, Sherlock.’ He muttered between his teeth, panting. ‘This is now or never.’

John absent-mindedly got rid of his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his cream jumper before he began his investigations. The diary. He had to find the bloody diary. He couldn’t contemplate the possibility of Sherlock still having it with him, or that it was the wrong lead, and least of all - least of all, _God_ , he couldn’t even fathom the possibility of being awfully wrong, the possibility that there wasn’t more to the message. All of it, just a stupid conspiracy theory. No.

_No._

He frantically looked through Sherlock’s work, books and notes on the table, wrecked everything when he couldn’t, almost breaking the elephant statue in the process, and turned to their messy library with a frustrated, angry exhale through his nose.

‘Please.’ He enunciated through still gritted teeth. His jaw was stiff, but he hardly felt it as he rummaged through the shelves. _God please, let me be right._

Just as he thought this, his hand fell on a small, slim book. Leather. Heart in his throat, John pulled it out and there it was. Sherlock’s diary. _Yes_. _Come on,_ he thought, _come on, Sherlock. Give me all you’ve got_.

_This, this is my heart._ The memory of his voice said, urgent, hot in the winter night. _My code._

John forced his hands to be gentle with the paper when he opened it, but still his fingers were shaking. He was expecting so much, hoping too _hard_. The first page only contained six words.

Rug, Vine, Bath, Watercress, Essay, Beetroot.

John frowned, first in painful, _painful_ disappointment, then in concentration. Was this supposed to mean anything to him, for him? No. _Bloody_ _fucking no_. He turned to the next page. Again, six words. They didn’t… they didn’t mean anything. Oh, God. Oh, God, he was wrong.

_This, this is my heart. My code. You could crack it, I’m sure, clever you. Heaven knows you’ll try._

John forced his body to calm down and took a deep breath, shutting his eyes for a second. Sherlock had intended him to crack this. And _damn it,_ he would. What else had Sherlock said? How was he supposed to do this? _Captain Watson_. As a soldier. He would do this as a soldier. Feeling steadier already, John browsed through the diary: most of the pages were blank, but he let them run until the end, until the hard cover caught in his thumb. John blinked.

There was written, ‘FC1’. Where had he seen this? Where? John shut his eyes harder than he had before, as if it would summon the memory faster. When in his life…? _Think_ , Sherlock’s voice demanded in his head as he made John spin around him, _think, John, think._ Soldier. FC1. Soldier.

‘God fucking Christ!’ He yelled all of the sudden, and he realized that he had jumped to his feet like a spring, and Mrs Hudson somewhere downstairs was shouting in answer, ‘No swearing!’. But he had found out, he had figured it out, and he was already sitting on his heels again, searching for the book he needed. ‘I knew it! I just _knew_ it!’

Now, where would Sherlock hide the book? _Heaven knows you’ll try_. You ruddy bastard, since when did you plan all of this? With conviction, John went for the shelf where he stored his Bible and their books on religion.

He pulled it out without effort. The code. FC1. John knew that code. A military one. This one too had been used in the army in the form of a book, the _Field Code no.1_ book, which was issued to brigade, regimental and battalion headquarters of a soldier’s division. When initiating radio-communication, the soldier always had to start by declaring, ‘FC1’. And inside the book was a glossary of field-related vocabulary to communicate through coded messages. He had found it. The key to Sherlock’s book.

There were no helping the roars of his blaring heart now, even if his face remained stern with concentration, so he took the blurry, creased letter out of his pocket and flattened it against the table. It all made sense. He was positive he had found the solution now. The Field Code used three letters for each message, and Sherlock had written his in paragraphs of three lines: each paragraph was a word or collection of words, and the _first letter of the line_ was one of the three letters of the code. You ridiculous _genius._

John wildly turned the pages of the code book and wrote down the corresponding words for “PNW”, “OXA”, “BOM”, “DPM”, “RUM” and “XMU”. He had been such a _ruddy_ _fool_ to believe he could form _words_ out of this in the first place.

When he was done, John put the pencil down. His heart had calmed down to a comforting, unshakable certainty. That certainty he had always felt regarding Sherlock before that dreadful, that _wrong_ moment when his friend had pretended to want to kill his unborn baby.

For weeks, John had been afraid to breathe fully, for fear that his ribs would fracture and leave him sobbing. Now, he inhaled full force. Despite the urgency, the shock, the cold creeping up his spine, John felt whole once again. It was as simple as that.

His eyes decidedly skimmed over the message one last time:

“ _Enemy in our trenches. Believe me. Have you received my message.”_

He grabbed a blank piece of paper.

  


‘I’m _dying!_ ’ He shouted, pulling at the cushioned restraints around his wrists, furious at the shot of pain he felt nonetheless, but even more so positively enraged by the fact that no one would open the offensive door.

There were (two) guards outside his various cells at all hours, but, given the position of the sun and his current location, it was around 2:32 p.m. - more like 2:34 p.m. if he was facing east by 10 more degrees, he had no way to know - and two of the thickest, most credulous new guards of the lot had begun their shift. Mycroft sent new batches of men every few days now. _Bugger_ him.

Yet no one stirred outside the room (unlocked), and Sherlock remained alone, alone in his mind, in the bland room with its endless dull white walls. Four white walls, two pieces of hospital furniture, also white, white, white, white, white white - _White, noun:_ achromatic colour; comes from Common Germanic and ultimately find its roots in Proto-Indo-European language -

‘ _God!_ ’ He exclaimed, ‘I’m dying! You,’ He enunciated each word separately, ‘are killing me! _Mycroft!_ ’

He pulled again against his restraints, hissing when the needle feeding him didn’t budge. What was the point of this outburst if he couldn’t manage to get rid of the needle? Sherlock screamed in a long, deep roar for good measure and let his body fall down against the hospital bed (soft, boring) for a few seconds. Eventually, one of the guards received a phone call - brief, the _yessir_ type of call, undoubtedly Mycroft - sighed, and stepped into the room for Sherlock’s enjoyment. Bored out of his skull, he lashed out until he couldn’t deduce one further pathetic failure of the man’s life and ended up calling him Anderson. He didn’t seem to understand, but Sherlock chuckled and then laughed, remembering crime scenes, remembering John.

Sherlock fell into his mind palace, or dozed, he wasn’t sure.

If only he could have morphine, or coke.

The warehouse. A common place to meet for shadowy business, Sherlock guessed. Criminals rarely ever met in plain sight - Moriarty would. _Moriarty Moriarty Moriarty_ \- The man jumped from the dead and gripped Sherlock by the collar, smiling, his teeth full of his own blood. _You’re dead._

_Well_ , the criminal mastermind answered with his soft, sing-song voice, _I think we both know that’s not quite true._

Moriarty’s eyes fell on Sherlock’s lips, who felt a shiver run down his spine. _John._ He had to stop Moriarty for John, to protect him from the upcoming danger, if not to allow them to finally be together. Because Mary -

Moriarty groaned. _Forget your pet for one second, Sherlock. This is about something bigger. This is about you and me._

Except it wasn’t, Sherlock had already told him so, John had told him so in his mind palace in 1895. So Sherlock closed his eyes and, when he opened them again, he was in the memory of the warehouse once again.

He had been connecting dots together that day, hundreds of scattered dots concerning Moriarty and murders which shouldn’t have been connected. Except they _had been_ , and Sherlock had recognized the pattern. The fact that Leonard Griffin was responsible for the death of the three victims was obvious at this point, but more importantly, he would be meeting someone _here_ in this warehouse for a far more crucial purpose. Hugging the walls, Sherlock progressed along the unlit corridor until his foot hit on a splash of light on the floor that came from the main depot room. Voices.

Of course, since Sherlock was in his mind palace, this time he stepped out of his hiding place and walked to Griffin and Mary as they talked.

‘I’m not sure you’re the agent we want for the job, _Morstan_.’

Mary (Mary, Mary, Mary what are you doing here, Mary you traitor, I _knew_ it) smiled, a derisive, full smile as she threw her head back, probably enjoying the good joke she perceived in the situation.

‘And why would that be?’ She asked, frowning. Sherlock stopped the memory and focussed on her and his recollection of the moment. He stepped closer. Usual playful voice. Often used to tease John. Except it was condescension imparted by a sense of superiority, the confidence of knowing the full scheme of things. But do you _really_ , Mary? He played the memory again, and she scoffed, ‘Because I’m _pregnant?’_

‘You’re compromised. I think you let yourself grow attached to John Watson, he’s going to be the father of-’

‘You dummy!’ She interrupted, slightly shaking her head with her mouth open like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘John Watson isn’t going to be the father of _anything_.’

Griffin’s face lowered to her belly, and froze in realization as Sherlock stopped the memory again. He circled her, not caring to suppress the disgust from his face.

‘I should have _killed_ you.’ He slowly spat in her ear. For the umpteenth time - they often had had this conversation here. ‘John would have understood once I would have told him you were _never_ pregnant. You played him. You still do. You _sicken_ me, Mary Morstan.’

‘You really should have, you know.’ She said, turning her face to his while the entire scene still remained motionless, out of time. Their faces were very close, like this, but neither of them cared. Sherlock didn’t because he loved John and not women, and Mary didn’t because all of this had always been just a mission assigned by Moriarty. Obvious. Sherlock hated himself for not having seen it sooner. ‘Now you’re gone, Sherlock. He’s alone, and it’s your fault. You didn’t shoot me because you couldn’t do this in front of him. Very sentimental of you, _thank you_.’

Sherlock’s jaw clenched and the memory started once again. Mary turned her focus back on Leonard Griffin and drew out her handgun from the waistband of her trousers.

‘Now give it to me.’ She demanded.

‘Moriarty…’

Mary let out an exasperated sigh and cut in, ‘Moriarty brought you here so that I could kill you, you silly fool.’

Moriarty. Moriarty was alive, alive, John, _John._

The sound of a shot echoed in the large room, and before the man could think of an answer, a bullet went through his forehead, piercing flesh, frontal bone and brain - Sherlock took the time to analyze the trajectory, flawless - and he collapsed to the ground. Mary didn’t waste a moment and threw the gun away (should have analyzed it) as she walked to the corpse to retrieve something from Griffin’s pocket. Sherlock squinted his eyes but didn’t see what it was. Small. Precious. Moriarty’s.

Sherlock went to pick the gun on the ground like he had done that day, and pointed it at Mary’s head. However, whereas in reality they had been approximately eight yards apart (8.552), they were now facing each other up close, their mutual distaste invisible save for their burning eyes. He let the memory play and the unaltered words flow out of his mouth.

‘Sherlock,’ She said, and she didn’t sound surprised. But he had to rewrite _Mary_ (A.G.R.A.) completely. ‘You’re here.’

It had taken him a second to realize, to put everything together.

‘You knew I would be.’

‘That’s the reason I’m here. I couldn’t possibly let you get your hand on this package. Any package, in fact.’ She added with a smile, then frowned. ‘Come on, don’t make yourself look more ridiculous than you are, Sherlock, you’re not going to shoot me.’ Her posture was pure decontraction. She really believed it. ‘I’ll even tell you why: that wouldn’t stop Moriarty. He’d be crossed, you know.’ The thought made his heart race. _I’ll burn you._ ‘He’d kill John. Not… Maybe not literally, though I’m not _quite_ sure. But John would lose his wife, his child -’

‘He doesn’t have a child.’

Mary ignored him.

‘His sister… And everything else. Maybe even you. Poor John Watson, I wonder how he’d cope with all that.’

There was literally only one thing that Sherlock hated more in that moment that Mary Morstan, and it was the man that had sent her into John’s life. _I’ll burn... the heart..._ _out of you._ And yet again, as far as human feelings were quantifiable, his hatred for A.G.R.A. burnt hotter than his fear of Moriarty, now. John had already experienced so much pain in his life, partly because of Sherlock, and he knew every new blow would hurt harder, deeper. He was going to lose a wife and a child. Not that the child ever existed in the first place (neither did the wife), but John would still stupidly feel its loss.

Every truth, every fact Sherlock thought he had mastered regarding John’s safety was crumbling.

‘Listen to me, Sherlock. This is really simple: if you tell anyone about me, about what you saw, or especially about the transaction, if you tell John, Sherlock, if I have the slightest feeling that he knows… I’ll kill him.’ No doubt in that treacherous face. ‘I’ll kill him in his sleep, or another agent will do it for me. John thinks he has friends, but he only has people working for Moriarty. No one genuinely _likes_ him, really.’

While his real self had chosen this moment to decidedly point the gun to Mary’s face, and then belly, he now only peered into her lying eyes with all the repulsion and loathing he could summon to swear in a calm whisper, ‘I’ll stop you, A.G.R.A.’

Unexpectedly, Mary started crying.

‘Sherlock?’

Sherlock’s heart stopped. He knew that voice, recognized what came next. He wouldn’t look back as he had done that day, he wouldn’t turn around to see this distraught John, nor the fear on his face.

Mary’s smile widened, and Sherlock retreated by closing his eyes and fleeing the illusion.

 

 

Upon his arrival in his gilded cage after Griffin’s murder, there had been no time to waste.

Sherlock had quickly had to rule out the possible scenarios that would have led to his release or escape: _Mary_ had made it quite clear that he couldn’t be publicly proved innocent of the murder of Griffin, lest she be considered the primary suspect; he could have only relied on Mycroft’s discretion for that, but his brother had been unwilling to hear him out on the subject (first clue). He couldn’t escape this place to warn John either - there were too many risks that A.G.R.A. or Moriarty’s agents would learn about it and kill John; and, once again, his brother proved to be a pointless waste of DNA when he outrightly refused to warn his friend of what Sherlock had witnessed (second clue).

That stubborn reluctance, this unusual refusal to simply set out reasonable arguments like chess pieces to prove Sherlock wrong - among other details he had progressively discovered with time once his assumption had been made - had taught Sherlock that Mycroft was working for Moriarty.

Had always been.

Since the very beginning.

This made matters more complicated.

Sherlock could be detained for an undetermined amount of time here - time he _did not have_. He had already evaluated that John would be somewhat safe with Mary as long as he didn’t learn the truth but, at the same time, they needed to stop Moriarty to put an end to that threat. The criminal mastermind had held that sword of Damocles over John’s head and Sherlock’s metaphorical heart for far too long. The only lead Sherlock had so far was that mysterious object A.G.R.A. had taken from Griffin’s corpse. The conclusion was obvious: he needed John to retrieve it.

The short blogger probably didn’t realize it, but Sherlock had been setting several emergency plans over the years. One of them - though he had not always used it for that purpose - had been to ingrain in John’s mind the idea of a coded language, and matters had gotten out of hand when Sherlock had started scribbling actual truths in the token of his plan, the diary.

What would raise John’s interest more than something forbidden, something personal belonging to Sherlock and collecting his most secret thoughts? If he was being modest, he could confidently think than the answer was: not much. John would try to figure it out in that curious, clever mind of his, and when the time would come, he would remember through key-words or association of ideas what this was about. _Or_ John would think first about a military encryption and the _Field Code no.1_ Sherlock had taken half an hour to memorize carefully, and this whole diary thing would just have served his usual, boring purpose: unnecessary drama over dripping _sentiment_ ; a _key to one’s heart_ which secretly, pathetically begged to be read.

Embarrassing that he had indeed written in it.

Thanks _heaven_ , if Mycroft’s men turned the place upside down they would only find a small book with notes on vegetables and household products. Sherlock was pretty sure John, unassuming as he was, would be quicker.

Now he just needed to send a casual apologetic message to John. Everything else Mycroft had refused, despite Sherlock increasingly threatening him. He needed Mycroft to think that he was just being desperate and emotional. Like a _drug addict_. So he wrote that heartfelt, over the board letter and _begged_ Mycroft - he had said please, and then had cried crocodiles tears - to deliver it to John.

When he had also said no, Sherlock’s resolve had hardened and he had fully immersed himself in his plan. The only leverage Sherlock had on Mycroft here, in this cell, was fairly obvious, and he started the race by grabbing the sharpest object he could find in his then devastated room - he _hated_ being kept like a spoiled prince in an ivory tower while John was in danger - and opened the wrists of his transport. Just enough to let the message come across. It worked, and Mycroft finally delivered the letter.

But John didn’t reply. At first, Sherlock had neither questioned John’s loyalty (steadfast) nor his capacity to crack the code; he had assumed Mycroft had lied. So he had sent another letter, and another. Sherlock’s mind started to darken with the thought that John still thought he had tried to kill his (non-existent) daughter. This had been the whole point, after all. He had needed Mary to let her guard down and John to realize through Sherlock’s extreme precautions that something was wrong, but that he had to be careful. Two weeks later there was still no answer.

Mycroft called him a _child_ and _pathetic_ and would swear to God above - even though he was an atheist - that John received them. Sometimes he refused to send more. So, sometimes, Sherlock used the threat of damaging his transport, and bruised himself, sprained a limb, refused to eat, made himself throw up, punched the guards, punched the walls… depending on the new cell and freedom of movements he was allowed. A few days ago, while attached to the hospital bed and force-fed, he had bit on his on tongue to draw blood. _Disgusting taste_. Coppery. He’d choked on it willingly until doctors came along.

Mycroft had made someone gag him with a leather band (strong smell, new) and called him a spoiled child. He had then looked particularly angry given the fact that ‘ _this new idea of his_ ’ had been unnecessary: indeed, Mycroft had himself delivered the letter to John earlier that day and had watched him read it.

It was 1813 and the Napoleonic Wars, and Sherlock had just won Leipzig.

Then only did Sherlock allow Mycroft to rest for the day, despite being bored to death and suffering seven hells without a distraction. He tried to recover his forces until John would answer. His transport had seldom felt so _inadequately weak_. If there wasn’t John to save, he would simply kill himself. How he longed for coke.

Twenty-four hours was not much to crack the code, if John had gotten the memo at all, but Sherlock’s restlessness had shot up to new heights (bored, bored _bored!_ ) and he had an undying faith in the not sharp but intelligent John Watson, who would probably reach out soon, so he started to attract Mycroft’s attention again in case he would need an _incentive_ not to destroy John’s answer. Watching his _dear_ deceptive, disheveled, duplicitous brother rush into Sherlock’s brand new grey (not white, still achromatic) cell with an open envelope in his extended hand was the most satisfying feeling.

‘Here. The answer from John Watson.’

Obviously, restrained as he was, Sherlock couldn’t get a hold of it. Mycroft held it at a safe distance and eyed Sherlock carefully before raising an expectant eyebrow which wasn’t as impressive now that he had deep shadows under his eyes. ‘Will you behave, now?’ He asked suspiciously.

‘Yes. Give it to me.’ Mycroft nodded to the guard at the door, and Sherlock impatiently pulled his arm free as soon as he got the chance to snatch away the piece of paper before his brother changed his mind and decided to use it in their mind games.

John.

Finally.

‘Thanks. Now, go away.’

‘No chance, little brother. I’m fastening you to the bed once you’re done. Unless…’

Sherlock agreed that as long as Mycroft cooperated, he would act as a dutiful inmate, since Mycroft appeared so _keen_ on making him pay for Leonard Griffin’s murder. Mycroft’s jaw twitched, but conceded that they had a deal. Still, he remained in the room. Sherlock couldn’t care less at this point.

_John, did you understand? Please. Please, show me you did._

For the first time in days, he was able to jump to his feet and pace the room as he eagerly unfolded the letter and directly looked for the first letters of each line without reading the message.

He could have spun around and let out a victorious cry.

_Clever, clever, loyal John._

The game was on.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /!\ Spoilers about this chapter /!\  
> The Field Code no.1 actually exists - of course - and you should be able to consult it [here](https://archive.org/stream/collectionofsecr00unit#page/n0/mode/2up) if you wish. I know, I know, it was damn nigh impossible to decipher the letter on your own, but you clever people do pick up on other things, don't you...? 
> 
> Thank you to everyone kind enough to leave kudos and comments. All my (Johnlock) love !!


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